
Class ^^_OX 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSE 



THE PASSING OF TIME 



The 
PASSING of TIME 



By 
William de Forest Thomson 



NEW YORK 

ROBERT GRIER COOKE, INC. 

1907 



{library of coNai :a 

| Two Copies H 

! DEC 17 190? 
Copy/igni entry 

■ CLASS A XXc, ft 
il 0OP\ B. 






Copyright 1907, by Robert Grier Cooke, 
Entered at Stationer's Hall. 



Inc. 






TO 

M. W. T. 



CONTENTS 



Page 
The Flight of Time, ------- 9 

The First Spring Whisper, - 13 

Ashes, ----- 17 

To Spring, ---------- 21 

Love's Spring Song, -- 25 

Twilight - - - 29 

Lullaby, ----------33 

Midsummer, --- 37 

Homeward, ---------- 43 

Flames, ----- 47 

The Passing of Summer, ------ 51 

The Coming of the Frosts, 57 

Late Autumn, ---------61 

The Breath of Winter, ------ 65 

The Dying of the Year, ------ 69 

New Year's Eve, - ----73 

Eternity. ------ ----77 



The Flight of Time 



The Flight of Time 

Silence. The moonlight on the lake. 

The soft sweet fragrance of the evening air; 

And all the realm of nature into quiet hushed, 

Charmed by the subtle stillness of the summer night. 



Slowly, behind the hill rises the shining moon, 

And 'cross its visage flit the mists and clouds 

Like half seen phantoms of another world, 

Throwing long shadows on the earth beneath. 

Then darkness; then a brighter light; 

Then radiance like day. Then darkness once again; — 

That constant change of light and shade 

Which has continued since the world began, 

And will continue on through ages still to come. 

While overhead sun follows moon ; then sun again, 

Rising from out the east only to sink into the west 

And mark another instant in the flight of time. 



The First Spring Whisper 



The First Spring Whisper 

The cold, harsh, gales of March have passed. 

The snow clings to the shadows of the walls, 

And, 'neath the shelter of the hill 

The long drifts lie, — a lingering vestage of the time 

When winter swept across the frozen fields. 



Noisily the little brook dances and foams, 

Splashing its merry way; 

And, hidden in some safe retreat, the hungry fish lurk, 

watchful ; 
Alert ; scarce moving. 

Suddenly they rise, snap, turn, and dart away 
To hide beneath some rock, to watch, to wait, 
Or vanish down the stream to where the watercress 
In matted tangle grows. 



Earlier each day the dawn appears. Earlier each morn 

the sun, 
Rising behind the eastern hills, calls to the world. 
Each day the earth below an answer gives ; 
And listens while the southern winds whisper the first 

faint harmonies of spring. 



13 



Ash 



tes 



Ashes 

Clouds of soft grey and whitened smoke arise 
From the rich pasturage and fertile meadow land 
Where the sere grass and wreckage of the winter lies 

aflame, 
Ascending to the sun in holocaust of glory 
That new glory should appear out of the ashes of the 

funeral pyre. 



Strange mystery of nature's power, 

One dying that another should be born, 

One born to bring another death, 

Death after life, and life from death. 

Winter to dissolution sinks; and spring is born. 



17 



To Spring 



To Spring 



Sweet, fairest season of the year, 

With hope, and joy, and happiness inspired, 

What subtle power lies in thy charm, 

That, from the long deep slumber of the winter's night 

The earth doth gladly waken to thy call? 

Sweet spring, the flowers do love thee well, 

The birds do sing for love of thee, 

And every tree doth haste 

To grace thy season with its leaves and flowers. 

If thou the world can with such magic move, 

Touch with thy charm those hearts who know not love. 



n 



Love's Spring Song 



Love's Spring Song 



Happy, happy, merry days ! The earth is all a-flower,- 

The tulips and the crocuses, the hyacinth and pansy,- 

And many a violet's in the dell, 

And many a brook is dancing, 

And many a marigold 's in sight, — 

Tis time to go a-Maying. 

Tis not the time to stay indoors 

When daffodils are blooming, — 

For spring will come, — and spring will go 

Lest you hasten to your Maying. 



The blue bird in the orchard sings, 

To his love mate he is singing; 

And love doth tune his madrigal, 

For love loves music ever. 

And every flower and every bird, 

With the joy of life is singing. 

'Tis not the time to stay in doors, 

'Tis time to go a-Maying, 

And seek the hidden wooded glade 

Where arbutus lies a-smiling, 

Where snowdrops grow, and 'neath the trees 

Jack-in-the-pulpits hiding. 

Spring is the love time of the year 
When all the world with melody resounds. 
Love is the spring eternal of our life, 
Which all the discord of this life confounds. 
Love is the jewel of the heart, 
Which in the heart's recesses hides, 
And its true value only doth impart 
To those who can its value realize. 
Love is the hidden power, the charm, 

25 



Which can the sorrows of old age allay; 

Love alters not when youth has flown, 

Love withers not, when age doth stay. 

Abuse not love, for love is kind, 

And much unkindness from her loved ones bears. 

Love is the joy and hope of life, 

No other prize of life so rare. 

If love can all these treasures prove, 

In spring time go a-Maying with your love. 



26 



Twilight 



Twilight 



Soft on the moor-lands falls the hush of eventide, 
Forth from behind the hills creep the long shadows, 

children of the night 
And all the earth and all the heavens are still. 



There stands the yeoman, summoning his cattle home 

With loud halloo and many a rustic call. 

Slowly they come, each lingering to be last, — 

Down through the gate, now crowding up the lane. 

Intent on home they pass from view, lowing as they go. 

How still the air ! The swallows flying overhead, 

The distant baying of a hound, 

The tolling of a bell, — 

No note discordant, save that on the road 

A local nimrod passes on his journey home 

Whistling some time worn tune all out of key, 

With pole aslant and sorry minnows dangling on a twig. 

Bursting with tales of monsters seen and fish that 

'scaped the line. 
Then in a blaze of beauty comes the sun forth from 

among the clouds, 
And everything is glorified which the golden light 

enshrouds, 
And all the birds break into song and all the flowers 

rejoice, 
For the evening song time cometh and the earth has 

found its voice. 



Softly the twilight lingers on the summit of the hills. 
The world prepares for slumber, the thrush has ceased 

her song 
And nought reflects the glories of the day save in the 

sky, 



Those crimson, golden, silver, azure lights, 

Those harmonies which first awoke creation into light, 

And which will live eternal till the dying of the world. 

And now on every hand the fireflies flit by, 

The fairies of the air who with the glowworms 

Light the katydids and crickets while they sing. 

The tiny frogs begin to peep, until some patriarch of 

the lake, 
Roused from his slumbers in the weeds 
Awakens hill and valley with his voice. 
The ghostly hoot owl gives his mournful cry, 
The nighthawk calls from out the sky, 
And answering both, that restless denizen of the woods, 
From out his forest thicket cries: 
"Whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will." 
The day is gone, the night abides. 



30 



Lullaby 



Lullaby 



Softly the waning light of day fades and dissolves into 

the night. 
Peace, and the harmony of sweet content 
The spirit of the evening hour charms. 
No breath bestirs the sultry air, nor scarce a sound, 
And all the world to fancy's dreamland sinks 
While katydids and crickets sing their soothing lullaby. 



Midsummer 



Midsummer 

Long seems the day, and lifeless hang the leaves upon 

the trees, 
While, high above, the sun beats down, 
And all the air feels parched and robbed of life. 

* * * 

Hard by the stream,— the cattle weary with the heat 

seek comfort in the shade. 
Some lying down, and others standing mid-deep in the 

ford 
To cool their bodies in the stream, 
And drink, and drink again to quench their thirst. 
And listen to the locust singing in the pines, — 
That wanton creature of midsummer life 
Who sounds the loudest on the hottest days 
As if created to intensify the heat. 
And just beyond, where turns the brook, 
An ancient elm in stately beauty stands, 
Its branches sweeping low in graceful curves 
As if to view their image in the stream. 
The ever restless, ever greedy, ducks are gathered 

'round its giant trunk, 
The chase abandoned after luckless frogs and tiny bugs. 
How happy seem the ducks ! And how contentedly 

they lie and while away the time, 
Now gazing idly at the clouds, now dozing with their 

bills beneath their wings, 
And dream of summers that are past and pleasures still 

to come. 
Until, awakened by some passing sound, they stand 

alert with head erect 
And fix the chance intruder with their beady eyes, 
Or question his intent with loud insistent quacks. 

* * * 

And now the sky is overcast, and in the trees a cooling 
zephyr stirs. 

37 



And higher mount the clouds, great thunderheads, 
Some dazzling white and others dark in shade. 
And underneath,— the storm, repellent, black, 
Sublime in beauty, instant flash, and sullen roll of 

thunder. 
Before it all is still. 

The birds, uneasy, flit about. From tree to ground, 
To wall, and back again, and hover near their nests. 
On, sweeps the storm, and for a moment night. 
Then blinding flash and thunder crashing overhead, 
And low! An ancient landmark of the fields 
Split in an instant to the heart, and torn asunder 
Prostrate lies, awaiting slow decay and final dissolution. 



Small chance there is to 'scape the storm, 

The mother, with her brood of chicks, must halt, 

And gather those she may beneath her wings. 

Such sorry chicks! That short before were running 

gladly to and fro, 
Now, cold and frightened, crowd beneath her wings. 
Drenched to the skin, and close she holds them, 
Fearful lest some be swept away and drowned, or 

smitten with a deadly chill. 
The ducks, the fury past, rush gladly forth ! 
Here one has found a pool and straightway bathes 

therein, 
While others haste to catch the helpless bugs 
That float like shipwrecked mariners on leaves and 

straws, — an easy prey. 
And here, a duck majestic sails upon a lake scarce 

finger-deep. 
And there, a lusty drake, spying a rival, gives him 

instant chase, — 
And 'round, and 'round, and 'cross, and through, he 

goes in hot pursuit. 
In frantic haste he beats his wings for greater speed. 

38 



Then all at once the sun breaks forth, 

Shining through clouds and rain; 

The glistening iridescent drops sparkle upon the trees. 

The sparrow, robin, bobolink and wren for very joy 

begin to sing; — 
And from afar is heard the low sweet music of the 

thrush, 
Deep in some hidden wild; 
A call to venture forth and view again 
The woods, the hills, and glories of the setting sun. 



39 



Homeward 



Homeward 

Low slants the sun, and fresher grows the wind, 
First harbinger of coming night. 
The tired horses slowly turn toward home, 
With heads bent low, and weary tread ; 
Glad that the day's hard work is past. 
And at their side the rustic plods along, 
Slouchy in mein, hat tilted back, and mouth agape. 
Uncouth tiller of the earth ! 

To whom a lifetime spent in toil is easier than a day 
in thought. 



43 



Fla 



mes 



Flames 

Still is the evening. In the trees a summer zephyr 

feebly stirs; 
The crescent of the waxing moon gleams through the 

rising mists ; 
A murky darkness shrouds the lake; the woods are 

veiled in somber night. 

* * * 

Quiet. From afar the dip of oars, and voices heard 

across the lake; 
Then silence. In the pitch blackness of the night the 

fire is lit; 
A wreath of smoke appears; the little twigs snap with 

the heat; 
The brush is fed upon ; and, curling over stick and log, 
From out between the crackling leaves, 
From out between the tongues of flame, 
The smoke mounts upward; in the still air 
Ascending high above the tallest trees, — 
A cloud of grey and white, 
Pungent with the scent of burning wood. 



Now breathes the wind upon the fire. 
The logs grow animate in the flames, 
And, in the brilliant light, the trees revealed 
Stand out against the blackness of the night. 
Merrily the burning pine crackles and snaps; 
The heat has grown intense, and insects 
Flutter near the treacherous flames, and, dazzled, perish. 
* * * 

Far out across the lake streams the resplendent light. 
The fish rise to the surface; the muskrat ventures near 

the shore, 
And frightened, dives into the depths 

47 



To view the marvel from afar. 

The crickets chirp their cheerful note; 

The tree toads make the wood resound; 

From the neighboring marsh boom the sonorous voices 
of the frogs; 

All the night creatures are astir; the owl from a dis- 
tance hoots ; 

And, on a sudden, close at hand, 

The whip-poor-will calls shrilly. 

The watch dog, dreaming by the fire, leaps up — 

Bristling in every hair — 

To stare into the darkness; 

To bark and bark again; 

And, in amazement, stand listening to his voice resound 
from hill to hill; 

And, in the silence of the night, deep in the forest, 

One faint, far distant, echo answers back in mockery. 

The dog, ashamed, growling goes to sleep. 

The fire burns low; — 

And once again the world is still. 



45 



The Passing of Summer 



The Passing of Summer 

It is the autumn of the year, 

That saddening time of shortening days 

When summer leaves the world, 

And turns oft times to look again 

And linger fondly where she once held sway, 

Aggrieved that all her beauties should so quickly fade, 

And her dear children should be left 

To face the tender mercies of the cutting winds. 

Gently the brook flows onward towards the sea, 

And o'er the worn rocks, and o'er the fallen trees 

Half hid in moss the water sings its song of ages 

As it glides into the clear deep pool, 

To ripple by the old grey rock, 

To pass in silence 'neath the gnarled willow 

Standing with roots deep in the stream 

And trunk bent forward half across the pool. 

And as the brook flows onward through the wood 

Marking its course, — here, there, on either bank 

Flames the swamp maple, 

Red with the touch of autumn. 

And on the higher ground stand the soft birches, 

With leaves bright yellow, or yellow green; 

With trunks encased in bark of silver-white. 

And on the summit of the knoll 

Cluster the young oaks, their tops now turning red, 

While, underneath, the leaves are green, or green and 

red; 
The twigs a russet green; the boughs a russet brown; 
The trunk a russet grey, — 
That harmony of red, and green, and brown. 
Which is the marvel of the autumn woods. 

51 



Now stirs a breeze among the trees, 

And, wafted by the wind,— here, there, and everywhere, 

The falling leaves drift slowly down, 

Twisting and turning as they come. 

A shower of crimson, yellow, orange, brown, 

A burst of color, that in the sunlight 

Shining through the trees and falling golden to the 
earth, 

Awakes the woodland world to life once more. 

The partridge standing on a log drums with his wings, 

That long, low, muffled sound 

Which penetrates the utmost reaches of the woods. 

The woodpecker, bright with many a color, flits about; 

And from behind some rock, the squirrel, 

With saucy whisk of tail, darts forth; 

To pause an instant and look 'round, 

And then, with sudden chirp, to dart into the under- 
brush; 

To reappear again with cheeks puffed out with nuts 

And scurry up some tree, scolding as he goes, 

And halting on some overhanging bough 

With nut in both his paws, and tail arched backward, 

Looks down upon the earth and chatters, 

Or hurrys off to reach his nest high in some forest oak. 
* * * 

Then, in an instant, every sound is hushed, 

And in the silence of the woods, 

A shadow moves across the earth, 

And every forest creature disappears, 

Crouching beneath some log, or buried in a thicket; 

While, overhead the hawk in silence circles 'round and 
'round, 

Searching each hidden wild with sharp, keen eyes, 

And, finding naught, — with sudden short quick stroke, 

He darts across the open field, close to the ground, 

With wings outstretched, ready to swoop upon his prey, 

And, swiftly as he came, he vanishes behind the hill. 

52 



And now the woods breathe once again, the danger past. 

The little chipmunk ventures forth, 

The hare leaps out into the open glade, 

And, in the hollow of the hills, where the brook twists 

and turns, 
And winds this way and that, seeking an outlet ; 
Where the ground is wet the whole year 'round, 
And bushes grow in thickets, — out of this woodland 

wild, 
Now two, now three, now score on score, 
Rises a flock of blackbirds, like bees at swarming time, 
And, twittering as they go, 

They seek some other hollow, to join another flock, 
And still a third, until their numbers swell to thousands ; 
In the cool air of evening, as the sun sinks towards 

the west, 
High overhead, in one enormous flight they journey 

southward, 
There to remain until the northland wilds 
Are singing with the coming of the spring. 



The Coming of the Frosts 



The Coming of the Frosts 

Cold is the lake. Forbidding in the twilight of the 

autumn day; — 
And, near at hand, the water, black, unruffled by the 

breeze, 
Its mirrowed surface bright with many a victim of the 

early frosts — 
The yellow, orange, brown, and crimson leaves; — 
Their rich warm colors in sharp contrast with the 

cold black water underneath. 



Out from the shore, where the deep current slowly 

moves, 
The first faint breathing of the northern wind 
Stirs the smooth surface of the lake into a thousand 

ripples. 
The dancing water sparkles with a silver light, 
Bright in the fading twilight, — a cold grey sheen, 
Harmonious with the biting wind, which blows 
Each instant stronger from the northern skys; 
As, with the coming night, the twilight deepens, 
And the air is sharp and cold. 



It is that time in autumn when the first grip of winter 

touches the shortening days; 
When, with a low, moaning sound, the wind sweeps 

through the pines, 
As though the ghosts of the dead summer haunted the 

earth once more. 
The western heavens, at sunset, glow with light, 
Brilliant in color, but cold; and all the sky looks 

greenish blue ; 
And the soft fleecy clouds seem clouds of snow instead 

of clouds of rain. 

57 



From the crest of the low hill, down to the water's 

edge, the field of winter wheat, 
In the dim twilight shines a verdant green, 
And o'er its surface blows each passing squall, fresh 

from the northland, 
Bending the subtle, growing blades, this way and that, 

in waves of green, 
As if in contrast to the waves of silver upon the lake 

below. 
Then, as the breeze sweeps onward toward the wood, 
The freshly fallen leaves, still beautiful in all their 

dying hues, 
Tossed by the wind, as though in mockery, 
Flutter once more among the naked boughs, 
Only to fall, unheeded, to the earth. Poor hapless 

leaves ! 
Full of the breath of life, upon the boughs, 
Once did they gaily dance, unto the music of the 

summer air. 
Now, like lost spirits, snatched by the frosts, 
Here, there, obedient to the whim of every autumn 

breath — 
Sport of the winds — 'round and 'round they whirl, 
To sink at last behind some log or stone, 
And lie neglected, 'till they pass into the dust of all 

the earth. 

Darker, grows the evening hour, — the light has faded 

from the western sky; 
And, overhead, the constellations ishine; the milky 

way appears ; 
And brightest, in the cloudless sky, flashes the evening 

star. 
The lake, beneath, reflects the firmament above. 
The northern wind moans through the pines ; 
And in the cool still night, following the sun, 
The evening star descends behind the hill; — 
Thus, to the eternity of time, has passed another day. 

58 



Late Autumn 



Late Autumn 

A cloudless sky. In the blue azure 
The sun is brilliant. 
The air feels crisp, exhilarating, sharp. 
It is November. 

The bushes gay with clustered berries bedeck the moor- 
land fen. 
The swamp grass glistens with the night's hoar frost, 
The brier with bright red leaves 
Lies lightly on the soft green moss. 

O'er the old fence, weather-worn with time 

The bittersweet has wound its clinging shoots, 

As though, with garb of yellow fruit it sought to grace 

The slow decay of that it did entwine. 



The fields are sere and brown. The grass has withered; 
The sumac with its shrivelled leaves rustles, 
As though, with whispers faint, 

It pleaded to the wind to call the summer back once 
more. 



61 



The Breath of Winter 



The Breath of Winter 

Winter. The fading light of day. 
The lonely pathway through the wood. 
The silence of the forest dark. 
The bitter cold. 

Downward the path winds to the lake, 
And through the overhanging trees 
The last refulgence of the sun is seen, 
As in a blazing ball of fire 
It sets behind the distant hills. 

* * * 
How still the air; 
How piercing is the cold; 
And to the northward lies the frozen lake 
And forest on the further shore, 
Unbroken, wild, and desolate. 



In all that solitude no sign of life; 
And as the darkness closes in the world, 
That weird and mystic sound is heard, 
The booming of the ice upon the freezing lake. 



65 



The Dying of the Year 



y 



The Dying of the Year 



Time in its onward flight has brought 
The final hours to the fleeting year 
The twilight deepens, and the sky 
Broods sullen, grey, and overcast. 
The earth in silent reverence waits 
With subtle consciousness of coming change, 
And, in the darkened hours, the year 
Breathes out the closing moments of its life. 



No stars are seen, nor does the moon 

In beauty of celestial glory shine, 

But in the cool still air a message comes 

As from a world unseen, 

And without words or utterance speaks 

Of change, and time, and life ethereal. 

Thus, in the hush of night, the tiny flakes descend 

To veil the earth as in a winding shroud of snow. 



69 



New Year's Eve 



New Year's Eve 

Tis New Year's Eve. The fire smoulders, 

And weird shapes among the glowing embers dance; 

Strange shadows flit across the walls; 

The clock in ghostly silence ticks 

As though it voiced the beating heart of time. 

Old memories, long forgotten, rise; 

Old faces, friends, and former scenes, 

The past, long buried. The life once held so dear 

In kindly reminiscence lives. 



For we as puppets are, like actors in a play 

Of which we neither know 

The end, or purpose, or beginning. 

Born to endure what time may bring 

With what philosophy we may 

In trust that He who did this world design 

Did living souls create to do them good. 

In faith abiding that throughout this changing life 

Some sovereign purpose rules 

Which in due time will be made manifest 

To those who have the patience to endure. 



73 



Eternity 



Eternity 

Rising from out the east, to pass above, and sink into 

the west, 
In endless cycle through the swiftly flying hours, 
Sun follows moon, and sun again, 
Through the succeeding sequence of the years ; 
And all creation journeys on obedient to a power 

resistless, — 
Driven in travail as it moves 
Towards an hereafter we but dimly understand; 
Towards an existence we but vaguely comprehend. 



Whence cometh time, and whither does it lead? 
We seek an answer, but creation answers not, 
Save that some spirit imprisoned in us doth protest 
That we have lived before, live now, 
And ever will be conscious of existence. 



Thus cometh time, and thus it doth depart; 

Creation moves in us, and we in it ; 

And like the body, which from year to year renews 

itself, 
So are we born, breathe, live, and pass away; 
A changing substance in that body animate 
Which liveth on and on, has been, 
And by the nature of its life will never die. 



77 



